From 6792de7cb082c5fb282be16955936bd2bde84b02 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Tue, 28 May 2024 22:10:43 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] formatting --- content/draft/005.md | 46 ++++++++++++++++++++++---------------------- 1 file changed, 23 insertions(+), 23 deletions(-) diff --git a/content/draft/005.md b/content/draft/005.md index 8b80ced..9ef1198 100644 --- a/content/draft/005.md +++ b/content/draft/005.md @@ -78,29 +78,29 @@ She smiled — another blessing! — and nodded to me. "We sat in the solarium and spoke about what reading *is.* She spoke of taking a story or a poem and wrapping oneself up in it. She gave me an example. She recited a poem: -> Too many suits move in too many lines. -> They circle banquet tables, hawk-eyed, -> hunting crudites, canapés, bruscheta. -> Fingers ferry food — fish, perhaps — finding -> slack-jawed mouths already open, -> squawking at wayward children -> or bemoaning The Market, -> whatever that may be. -> At some point, who cares how long ago, -> death surfaced, claimed one, submerged again. -> Who knows how well they knew him, -> their backs turned, studiously -> deciding that he is no longer of them? -> One could never guess. -> We can say his suit was very fine, perhaps, -> that the room is tastefully furnished, -> the coffin silver, the bar, open, -> quite good, and none of them are drunk yet, -> or at least none look it. -> "Good man, good man," they mutter, -> doing all they can to convince each other -> through well-rehearsed performances, -> that this must be the case. +> Too many suits move in too many lines. +> They circle banquet tables, hawk-eyed, +> hunting crudites, canapés, bruscheta. +> Fingers ferry food — fish, perhaps — finding +> slack-jawed mouths already open, +> squawking at wayward children +> or bemoaning The Market, +> whatever that may be. +> At some point, who cares how long ago, +> death surfaced, claimed one, submerged again. +> Who knows how well they knew him, +> their backs turned, studiously +> deciding that he is no longer of them? +> One could never guess. +> We can say his suit was very fine, perhaps, +> that the room is tastefully furnished, +> the coffin silver, the bar, open, +> quite good, and none of them are drunk yet, +> or at least none look it. +> "Good man, good man," they mutter, +> doing all they can to convince each other +> through well-rehearsed performances, +> that this must be the case. > The silently bereaved already sit graveside." I turned those words over and over in my head for a minute, since The Woman had seemed quite comfortable sitting in silence with me. She used that time to drink her water while I played back the words again and again, looking down at my paws, and then returned my gaze to hers. "There is a difference between the performance of grief and grieving, is there not?"